


since time immemorial

by promptdreamer



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Child Abuse, Domestic Violence, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Execution, Family, Family Drama, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Horror, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Sexual Abuse, Politics, Romance, Spiritual, Tragedy, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/promptdreamer/pseuds/promptdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short stories, one-shots, ficlets, vignettes, drabbles, etc. about the many monarchs, royals, and nobles of monarchy-ruled Europe from the Middle Ages to the twentieth century.<br/>[A/N: Soon to be revised and edited, currently on hold]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first in a series of drabbles, one-shots, ficlets, poems, vignettes, short stories, modern/medieval AUs, and songfics I’ll do for the European monarchs, from the kings and queens of 12th century war-torn England to the 18th century tsars of growing power Russia.  
> Disclaimer: I state the Universal Disclaimer: I, promptdreamer, don’t own the European historical figures of old and anything else you know I don’t own.

**#1:** _Comfort_

 **Rated:** _T_

 **Genres:** _Family, Horror, Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort_

 **Characters:** _Henry VIII; Henry VII; Elizabeth of York; Margaret Tudor (mentioned); Arthur Tudor (mentioned); Mary Tudor (mentioned); Margaret Beaufort (mentioned)_

 **Pairings:** _Slight Elizabeth of York/Henry VII_

* * *

 ** _H_** ENRY couldn’t sleep tonight, for the fifth time in a row.

The eight-year-old boy tossed and turned in his bed and tried counting sheep (it was a childish game, Henry knew that, but he couldn’t think of anything else – _and secretly, I’m still a child, a child in mind and spirit_ ) like his mother told him to do if he had a hard time falling sleeping but he was getting a headache trying to conjure imaginary sheep, so he stopped. He resorted to a favorite method of his father’s in trying to sleep after a long and weary night in court – inhaling and exhaling deeply and clearing his mind of all thoughts – but it was no use as his mind was still preoccupied with the events that had passed three days before and so the boy gave up and simply closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memories.

But he couldn’t. He never seemed to be able to. Henry could still see Margaret’s horrified face and the shocked expression Arthur wore, could still envision the dead greyhounds’ corpses trampled underneath the hooves of horses and the wheels of carriages. Henry couldn’t understand it, really. Why would anyone want to harm two innocent dogs – dogs which were his mother’s favorite?

His mother had been stunned upon being presented with the bodies. For a moment, she simply stood there, tall and silent, then she had broke down sobbing. Henry had not understood what was truly happening. He knew something big – and bad – had occurred, but he could not quite put his finger to it. “Mama, why are you crying?” a confused and bewildered Henry had wondered aloud. The auburn-haired boy patted her back, as he had seen Papa do to Mama whenever she was upset or sad, but this action only seemed to make her weep more, not cheer her up as Henry wished she would. The child did not like seeing his proud and beautiful and strong mother like this, all unhappy and miserable – the complete opposite of how she behaved on normal days. “Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Henry, my dearest child!” she had gasped and out of the blue, she had nearly crushed her second son in a hug that left Henry gasping for air afterwards. The boy, still in the dark about what was causing his mother’s mood, touched her soft red-gold hair gently and said, “Mama, don’t cry, it’s all right. Are you sad because Papa’s away?” His father was indeed away, visiting his mother (and Henry’s paternal grandmother) the Countess Margaret Beaufort in the sanctuary of Collyweston alone, and leaving his advisers and wife to manage the court in his absence along with his four children.

Elizabeth brushed away her tears with the back of her hand. “Yes, yes, I do miss your father very much – and dearly so, as a wife should her beloved husband. But that’s another story – the reason why I’m sad is because of these hounds? Do you not see, my son?” she said, indicating the dogs’ corpses on the tray before them. “They are Gawain and William, the greyhounds that your grandmother Margaret Regina gifted us for Christmas last year.”

“Ah!” And it suddenly dawned on Henry that these were the hounds that his mother had been looking for since last week, offering a generous reward to whoever found them. He remembered his mother frantically running through the halls of the palace, inquiring everyone she met on the way if they had seen her two greyhounds around. Everyone had replied that no, they hadn’t and asked what was her problem. His mother had responded that the hounds, named for Gawain of the Arthurian legend and William the Conqueror, had gone missing since that morning and she was desperate to find them. Henry knew how much she cherished those dogs, even though they had been a present from one Mama was not so close to. The boy himself loved them, often feeding and playing with them whenever he had the time or after his lessons with his tutors. They sometimes joined him in his crazy and wild antics but more often than not his parents would send the greyhounds after him when he was too restless and naughty, usually ending up with him covered in muck and dirt when they cornered him in the gardens or rolling on the floor laughing as the dogs barked and licked him.

And now indeed they had been returned, as his mother had wanted them to, but as ghosts of their former selves, mutilated and unrecognizable beyond all hope. Then Henry knew, and he sank to his knees and it seemed to him that he had joined his mother in her grief, inconsolable and despairing. His tiny arms enveloped his mother, who muttered between sobs that no animal deserved to have such a fate befall them. He felt numb and shocked, his innocence slowly being torn away from him at having witnessed such a grisly sight. Silent tears streamed down his face and he sniffled, burying his aching head on his mother’s shoulder. Though he may not have valued those dogs as much as his mother had, he had loved them as a child would, frolicking with them. And now they were gone.

Gawain and William may have been simply lowly creatures, not like the high and mighty humans around them, but they deserved better than that. They deserved to grow old, they deserved to die by the side of their masters. And if they died, they should die like heroes, defending their masters from harm. They did not deserve to have their heads crushed, each with an eye bleeding, their snouts deformed, their bloody hearts visible in their showing ribcages, their front legs missing, their fur torn and mattered with their life-blood. They did not deserve it – at all. His mother blew her nose on her lemon-scented handkerchief – her favorite perfume – and the strong odor left Henry dizzy that he almost did not hear his mother whispering, “Oh my son, I cannot express in words how sorry I am that you were forced to bear witness to this…abomination. I promise, we will find the ones who butchered them – and we will serve justice to them, as your father does to the criminals and those who commit treason against the state and the kingdom.”

Tearfully, Henry murmured in reply, “It’s all right, Mama, I know” before he fainted from the overpowering smell of lemon perfume.

Just then, Henry was shaken from his reverie by the sudden startling snore of his father next door, which was so loud it could be heard through the thick walls and probably woke up half the palace’s slumbering inhabitants. Henry sucked in a breath and quietly, he got out of bed and tiptoed towards the door. Stealthily and without making so much as a whisper, the eight-year-old slowly opened it and, after looking around to make sure no one was currently around, he crept outside and shut the door behind him. His tiny feet protected by socks muffled his footsteps so no one heard him or if they did, they probably assumed it was the noises many ancient buildings did on a cold and windy night.

He finally reached his destination. Careful not to alert anyone else who might be nearby, he sounded the knocker three times, and then another three. For a moment, no one answered and he thought no one had heard and he could feel disappointment gnaw at him. He was about to return to his chambers when he heard the door being unbolted and a gravelly male voice whisper behind him, “Hello?” Henry swiftly whipped around and saw his father standing in the doorway, tall and firm, but his ashen face and darting eyes gave away his anxiety.

Henry the elder frowned when he saw his son in the corridor. “Henry? What are you doing here?” Just then, realization dawned on him and his eyes widened. “Was that you I heard knocking?”

In a barely audible voice, Henry replied, “Yes, Papa. I want to be with you and Mama.” His father frowned down at him and the boy looked away, afraid to make eye contact with his father. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of Papa’s bad temper.

But to his astonishment, instead of questioning his son further about why he was out at such an ungodly hour, he merely said, “Come inside then.” Henry blinked. Did his father just say what he thought he heard? Slowly, he turned to make eye contact with his father and to his relief, his father was smiling – one of those strange but genuine smiles he usually reserved for only either Mama or Arthur. It wasn’t that Henry the elder didn’t love his children – he loved and cherished them all, in fact, but he favored his eldest son because he saw so much of his younger self in the Crown Prince of England.

His father raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

Henry blushed. “Oh, um, yes, of course, Papa,” he answered obediently and stepped into the room, with his father following suit. The light dimmed as he entered and Henry blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the change of light in the room.

There were only two lamps to give light to the chambers, one set on tables on each side of his parents’ bed. His mother was in bed, appearing to be asleep until the door closed with a rusty creak and her eyes fluttered open. She muttered, “Harry? Is that you?” Harry was Mama’s nickname for Papa, as their son had learned from occasionally *eavesdropping* on them. But he didn’t know why Mama didn’t call him that while in public or in the presence of Henry and his siblings, Arthur, Margaret, and Mary. Perhaps it was simply meant to be a private thing between the couple, a way to show their affection for each other that they couldn’t when they were surrounded by the nobles and courtiers of his father’s court.

“Yes, it is me, Bess, and with me is a visitor in the night,” Henry’s father replied. Henry couldn’t clearly see his father’s face in the shadowy light of the room but he imagined that his eyes were glinting with a mischievous twinkle. At this, his mother immediately sat up, alert and wide awake.

“Henry?” The boy almost wanted to jump into his mother’s arms and never let go at hearing her soothing voice call out his name, but he restrained himself.

Instead, he answered, “Mama, it’s me.”

“Oh, come here, my son,” she said, stretching out her arms towards him, “how I’ve missed you!” Hearing this, Henry’s heart warmed and he ran into his mother’s outstretched arms, almost knocking her back into the bed.

His father joined the mother and son moments later and soon they were simply one contented family lying on the bed, taking comfort in each other’s company. For some time, they enjoyed the silence until Henry’s mother broke it and whispered, “Henry, was there any particular reason why you came here?”

Henry hesitated. On one hand, he really wanted to confide in his mother about his nightmares. On the other hand, he didn’t want to appear weak in his father’s eyes. Though he didn’t exhibit any antagonism or resentment towards his second son, Henry’s father always sided with Arthur whenever the two brothers would get into a fight or argument and bestowed his eldest son with looks of approval and signs of favoritism that he would not with Henry. He didn’t want to worsen his already distant relationship with his father. That, the child supposed, made him feel closer to his mother and it was always her that Henry would run to whenever he felt sad or scared or was in distress – and never his loving but aloof father.

“I dreamt about Gawain and William,” he muttered awkwardly. Mama turned to him and Henry saw, though the light may not have been bright, that her normally clear-blue eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks blotchy, most likely from too much crying. She wrapped him in another hug and murmured, “Henry, my Henry” and Henry felt comforted by this, that at least his mother would show affection and love for him, even if his father hardly would.

“Oh, what an ordeal for us that day! I would have done anything to have prevented you from seeing that horror, but the damage was done. Your innocence was stripped from you five days past, Henry, and I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Henry did not understand much of what his mother was muttering about, but it did not matter because all he cared about was that he was here with Mama ( _and Papa, too, I suppose_ ), safe and sound, and no one was going to hurt him because his mother and father would stop them before they were going to let that happen and call the guards to dispose of the bad people.

To his surprise, his father cleared his throat and added, albeit in a rather awkward manner, “Your mother has told me about what had happened to her greyhounds, son. I am deeply sorry for your losses and I cannot tell you how much I wish to find the men behind – behind this repulsive deed and give them as murderers and killers deserve. But we can’t do anything until someone finds the guilty or our parties track them down and until we do, we can only wait. But in the meantime” – and at this his father’s voice cracked – “I offer my condolences and” – Henry’s father cleared his throat again – “I’m sorry.”

For a moment or two, there was but silence among the three of them. Henry wanted him so badly to continue, to go on and look his son in the eye and say sorry for all the things he’d done to make Henry feel bad or unloved, to declare that from now on he will no longer play favourites with his children, that he will now be a loving father who will actually show his affections towards Henry and his siblings. And Henry will look stern at first but eventually he can’t hold in his happiness and he’ll smile and say that his father’s forgiven, and his parents will weep and then they will be reconciled, all of them, and they’ll be like this for the rest of their lives. At least that’s how he wanted things to play out, in his mind. But the boy knew, deep inside, that he was foolishly dreaming, that they were no more than naïve, childlike hopes he desperately wanted to come true. That was the best of an apology and rare display of emotion other than anger, frustration, or placidness he could get from his father, and Henry should not ask for more.

And with this in mind, Henry’s night was a little bit brighter and happier now, and the family fell asleep snuggling next to each other ‘till morning came and the first rays of sunlight broke through the silk curtains of the King’s bedchambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here you have a family one-shot about Henry VII, Elizabeth, and little Henry. The next chapter will be more mature and seen from the mindset of an adult, so be warned!  
> I’m not particularly good with dates, but this one is supposed to take place in the year 1499. You can make it any month you want, but only after Margaret Beaufort took her vows of chastity and separated from her husband Thomas Stanley, living alone in Collyweston.


	2. Ghosts of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for angst and family feels ahead!
> 
> Disclaimer: I state the Universal Disclaimer: I, promptdreamer, don’t own the European historical figures of old and anything else you know I don’t own.

 

 **#2:** _Ghosts of the Past_

 **Rated:** _T_

 **Genres:** _Family, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Tragedy_

 **Characters:** _Elizabeth I of England; Anne Boleyn (mentioned); John Dee (mentioned); Henry VIII of England (mentioned); Mary I of England (mentioned); Edward VI of England (mentioned); Jane Seymour (mentioned); Catherine Parr (mentioned)_

 **Pairings:** _N/A_

* * *

 ** _E_** LIZABETH supposed that she should be tired after a long and weary day doing nothing but sitting in her office, handling paperwork, and meeting with her advisors. But for some strange reason, she felt no desire to head to bed yet after having a bath being attended to by her maids, so she requested the five young women to leave her in peace for the moment and they obediently complied, scurrying out of their mistress’s bedroom like mice and more than likely glad to be relieved of their duties, even if it was just for that night.

As soon as the last attendant exited, Elizabeth stood up from her bed and crossed over to one of the many airy windows in the room, but this one in particular faced the moon on this cloudless, breezy night.

She pulled back the silk curtains and sat on the chair beside the window. Gazing out at the unusually bright stars hanging in the heavens, Elizabeth’s mind wandered to an old superstition her consultant, John Dee, had taught some years ago, while the English queen was having her weekly astrology/astronomy lessons with the learned man. Burned in her memories forever with its mark made on her heart, the redheaded queen could still clearly remember the doctor’s exact words in his gravelly voice: “Some elders believe that each time a person close to our heart dies, a new star appears in the sky in their place.” But as these words had eloquently rolled off his tongue, Dee sounded so nostalgic and so wistful, as if he were trapped in some dream of the past. But Elizabeth also caught a hint of sorrow and regret in his voice and sensed lingering bitterness — and it seemed to pain him so that Elizabeth wondered what thing in the good doctor’s mysterious past could have cut such immense wounds and reopened them painfully after all this time. Was it his deceased first wife? Or mayhaps his parents? Elizabeth was beginning to ask but thought better of it, for truly some questions were better left unasked and thus unanswered.

After a moment or two of brooding silence between them, Dee added, “But of course, that’s mere superstition and there’s little evidence for that. For if such a belief was true, then every night should be filled with more stars than the last — but they are not, and on some particular evenings, there are none at all to be seen.” And on that note, the topic of their conversation abruptly veered back to what fortune the stars held in store for the Queen of England and afterwards they never discussed that rare display of vulnerability nor did it ever cross Elizabeth’s mind again. Until now…

Elizabeth idly drummed her fingers on the window pane and for a second of childlike hope, the red-haired woman pondered if Anne Boleyn was now a star, shining in the heavens and far above the people who had stripped her of life like she was always meant to be, and if she was looking down at Elizabeth, smiling gently…

Unconsciously, like some unexplainable instinct, the middle-aged queen reached up for the necklace that hung about her neck and took it off. She undid the clasp that held its locket in place, opened it, and then beheld the face painted in its miniature portrait.

Everyone who had been around during the early part of Elizabeth’s father’s reign in England decades ago could still recall vividly the vivacious, alluring second wife of King Henry VIII. Once scorned and the subject of many a rumour, Anne was now seen as an attractive and wonderful lady, praised by Elizabeth’s subjects and courtiers for her beauty, wit, and intelligence. But this was mere show to please their queen, Elizabeth knew that; for many, in their heart of hearts, still despised the woman for usurping the place of Henry’s first wife Catherine of Aragon as queen consort and for what she represented in their society — a clever, engaging lady who had no place in the traditional woman’s life as opposed to a sweet, dutiful, and pious housewife and mother who depended on her husband for her every need.

But Anne was so much more than a pretty face, an unpopular queen, and later a betrayed wife to Elizabeth: she was also her mother — and no amount of rumours and whispers ( _after all, they were never really proven, were they?_ Elizabeth wanted to desperately shout at all those who’d tried to slander Anne and were still trying, long after her death) could change that fact. Elizabeth may not remember her mother, may not remember what she looked like and what she smiled like and what she was like, but she was her mother nonetheless and her death early on in Elizabeth’s life had not lessened her daughter’s desire to know Anne better. But fate ( _and Father too, he was equally guilty_ ) had robbed her of that chance and Elizabeth had been left without a mother to shelter her from life’s unforgiving storms, left an orphan and slave to her father’s power.

Had Anne been a good mother? Elizabeth had never known the affection of a mother, the occasional loving words and embraces from her deceased stepmothers Jane Seymour and Catherine Parr aside, but she liked to think that she was, playing and laughing with her daughter at court, and would still have been had she lived to see her daughter grow into what she was now.

 Still, that had not stopped many rumours from growing over the years about Queen Anne — _Was she the virgin she had claimed to be when she’d consummated her relationship with the King? Was she committing incest with her brother George? Was her daughter, Elizabeth, a product of adultery?_ So many tales, so much gossip — _all lies_ , Elizabeth told herself, for her mother would never have done such abominable deeds; her sweet, innocent mother deceived by her father and soon executed on his orders; the dear Anne Boleyn, a commoner raised to the title of Queen Consort — no, she would not believe the gossip spread about her, her mother was just a victim, _no, no, no_ —

Elizabeth had been too young to understand life’s very much harsh realities when they shoved it in her face, in the form of her mother losing her head on false charges more than likely made up by her husband to easily get rid of Anne and replace her in her role as his wife with his mistress Jane Seymour. And now, she felt like she was still too young to grasp them and withstand their strong winds that  were trying to push her to her breaking point. No matter that her looks indicated otherwise, at this moment the Queen felt like the lost, vulnerable child that she had been a long, long time ago with no one to turn to — not a mother, not a father, not a sister, not a brother; they’d all left her too early and now she was alone in this world with none who could help her.

She turned her gaze back to the portrait, which showed a vibrant young woman with long brown locks, rosy cheeks, fair skin, and wearing a blue dress, holding up the red rose of the Tudors in her hands. Anne just seemed so blissful, _so_ seemingly full of boundless life in that painting that Elizabeth almost found it hard to believe that she had ever suffered great tragedies in her life.

Elizabeth turned over the locket and found herself staring at the words engraved into its back:

 

**QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN**

**(1501-1536)**

**“THE MOST HAPPY”**

 

              

 _The most happy._ It was so ironic that Elizabeth almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. Oh, if only her mother had known — and she might not have chosen such deceiving words as her motto, might have chosen less conflicting words that did not evoke great pain and remorse in Elizabeth.

Yes, her mother may have been happy for a time, and truly, for mayhaps she had thought it true love when she fell for Henry VIII. But she had not been happy, later on, and that was what hurt the most. _She did not deserve this fate, to be cruelly thrown away like a doll by Father after he was done playing with her and to have her promising life taken from her in a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. She — she deserved to live out her motto at all times, to always be the most happy, and woe on those who claim to possess more joy than her. Oh, but she did not, and — and it was all MY FAULT!_

 There. What had once been unthinkable for a number of years had thoughtlessly come to mind again. And it worsened the pain, worsened it so. _If I had only been born a boy, like everyone thought I was before my birth,_ Elizabeth tearfully thought, _my father might have never given a second thought to Jane Seymour and my mother would still have lived and my parents would be happy together. It would have had a fairytale ending, like it was always supposed to end. But fate was cruel — they were wrong, oh-so-terribly wrong._

Life does not always turn out the way one plans it to be. And the queen had learned that lesson in one of the hardest ways possible. She had lost everything early on — but somehow regained them, though in a different form and one that would never satisfy her as it would have had in her imagination. For she had come this far after all, hadn’t she? She was Queen of England now (no matter if Henry VIII was rolling in his grave with distress at such a revelation — she did not care; _you were my father, yes, and I loved you in my own way, but you were a bad one and you did not provide Mary, Edward, and I the affection and love we needed in order to lead good lives_ ). Her subjects loved her. Everything appeared peaceful and many, in fact, were calling her reign the Golden Age of England, the era of the country’s second queen regnant — and Elizabeth hoped that it would remain so in the coming years, for goodness knows how badly her kingdom needed a break from all the bloodshed and wars it had been experiencing in the past centuries or so.

_In the end, though it wasn’t in a manner anyone would have expected, Mother got her fairytale ending in this world — for I, her daughter, became Queen. Are you happy now? I hope you are. You deserve to be happy, the most happy._

A single, silent tear rolled down Elizabeth’s cheek and for the first time in a long time, she allowed her tears to fall; allowed herself to be a child once more, yearning for a mother’s arms wrapped around her. She looked out and up at the stars once more and she smiled through her sorrow. _Good night, Mother._

And with that, Elizabeth wiped away her tears and closed her locket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it was a bit too angsty for your taste, but I felt like there really had to be a chapter dedicated to Elizabeth and how she felt about her mother.


End file.
